Reaching out I saw things lapse in the bright darkness
and touched them with the restless hand of the blind.
Impenetrable to light, the night had acquired a thin,
sweetish quality that clung to my skin like milk.
I leant over the edges of my quarry and gazed
with frail happiness at the dark outlines of their
full, flowered bodies, the silvers of their eyes,
watching the procession as it quivered away,
watching and trembling to see all the naked
years of their slow moving.